Racing Against the Clock
by Kizzia
Summary: An explosion in central London is the start of a chain of events that turns both John and Sherlock's worlds upside down. With Moriarty desperate to get his hands on Sherlock (and the knowledge he possesses) , Sherlock is in desperate need of someone to trust. John Watson happens to be in the right place at the right time. And to be the right man. Bond!lock first meeting AU
1. Chapter 1 - A prologue of sorts

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't claim, not making any profit.

**Summary: **Written for Unconventional Courtship – A Panfandom Mills & Boon/Harlequin fic challenge that asked you to pick a Mills & Boon or Harlequin book summary as a prompt, switch the names of the characters for your OTP and then write a story of at least one thousand words to fit said prompt. I picked:

Tick ... tick ... tick ...

Falling in love is not an option for Dr John Watson. Certainly not with the mysterious John Doe who has been rushed into his emergency room. He feels an instant connection to the beautiful man, and he wants to help him. But being his knight in shining armour will put John's life – and his heart – in danger.

On the brink of a scientific breakthrough, Sherlock Holmes is now running on borrowed time. He has knowledge that dangerous men will kill to possess. He desperately needs to trust someone, and Dr Handsome is it. But who will protect him from John, who wants Sherlock as badly as Sherlock wants him.

**Author's Note**: Please note, because I don't want to confuse anyone, that although this is a Bondlock AU it is not a crossover with Skyfall. Characters from Skyfall appear in here, and the structure of the British Intelligence Services match those outlined in the Bond movies, but the storyline is entirely a mix of my own ideas and bits of BBC Sherlock. You may also encounter references to other Spy/Thriller fandoms – what can I say? I like to spread my net wide.

Also, this is currently a WIP as the plot just won't let go of me and what I thought would be an 10k fic has gone somewhat exponential. I shall update as frequently as I am able but I can make no promises on timing. I have already written the ending though, if that makes any of your feel any better.

I am also completely indebted to both Azriona and ladyprydian for saying they liked where I had gone with the prompt and then pointing out all the bits that weren't working and helping me to fix them. You rock guys! Thank you so much.

* * *

**Chapter 1 – A prologue of sorts **

In which there is an ending. And a few beginnings, too.

**_12.32 am on Wednesday 15th June 2011_**

**_The clock stops …_**

The door flies open and the surge of relief is so strong it takes Sherlock's breath away. There's only time to see a now familiar silhouette outlined against the white wall of the corridor before the door closes again and it's just the three of them. Alone.

It's almost like watching a film.

Because he can't speak, can't move, can't do anything to influence what's happening in front of him.

All he can do is sit there and hope history isn't going to repeat itself.

'Is that a Browning in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?'

'Neither.' The gun in question is drawn in one fluid movement, the safety catch being clicked off as it is levelled and held steady as a rock. 'It's a Sig. You really _should_ do your research.'

And then there is a shot.

Just one shot.

**_June 1995 – Sixteen years earlier, almost to the day …_**

He hears their approach in the crunch of the parched grass and scuffing of bare earth but he doesn't turn around. Ford reaches him first, hand finding Sherlock's own as he leans against him, head coming to rest on Sherlock's right bicep. Sherlock gives Ford's hand a squeeze but doesn't look away from the black marble headstone that is drinking in the evening sun whilst everything around it turns to gold. Then Mycroft arrives. A warmth at his back and a comforting hand on his left shoulder and Sherlock allows himself to consider the picture they must present to the woman who has halted directly to his left; a picture perfect triad of mourning in uniform black suits with uniformly bleak faces.

He counts down the seconds in his head until she starts to speak.

'The loss of Siger and Violet is a tragedy not only for you as a family but the agency and Britain as a whole. They were the best agents a country could have.'

Sherlock finally turns to acknowledge her presence. He only has to tilt his head slightly upward to look straight into her calm face that, from the lines at her eyes, forehead and mouth to the silver shimmer in her cropped hair, is indelibly marked with her years at the helm of the British Intelligence Service. What holds his attention is the fact that, although her gaze is not filled with the pity that he has seen in everybody else's eyes today, there is sadness in her eyes nonetheless.

'You care for all your agents,' he says, grateful his voice has not chosen this moment to crack or boom, 'but my parents were special to you … as you were to them. Sentiment won't bring them back though and it helps neither us nor them to allow it to colour your words. If they had really been _the_ best then they would still be alive.'

'_Sherlock._' Mycroft does nothing so uncouth as to raise his voice but his censure is obvious in his tone and the tightening of his fingers. 'My apologies, M. It has been a long day for all of us.'

'Unnecessary, Mycroft.' She does not look away from Sherlock as she speaks. 'Sherlock was merely stating the truth and he should not be berated for doing so.'

The sadness is gone, replaced by a piercing stare that is both measured and assessing.

'You have his eyes in more ways than the obvious,' she says, and Sherlock can hear in those words the steel in her core that made his father revere her and his mother adore her. 'Do not lose that ability to see clearly regardless of the situation you are in. It will stand you in good stead … whatever you choose to become.'

That night, in bed, after Ford had crawled in and sobbed himself to sleep in Sherlock's arms, Sherlock thinks on M's words, thinks on what little his Father shared with him of the missions he'd undertaken and, finally, he pictures exactly how they were killed.

And there, in the dark, with the comforting weight of his little brother pressed to his chest, he chooses.

He will follow in his father's footsteps - stay at Eton, get the skills, pass the tests - and then he will surpass him.

He _will_ be the best.

**_January 1996_**

'I _am_ sorry, Ford,' Sherlock says very quietly, when he's sure Mycroft can't hear him. 'I never meant to hurt you.'

'I'm the one who should be sorry,' Ford says through gritted teeth, cradling his right arm to his chest as they wait for the car to be brought round. 'I should have paid more attention when you were showing me how to block.'

'I should have made sure you'd understood.'

'Doesn't matter, does it?' Ford's eyes are shining despite the pain. 'It proves that it works. That you actually can break someone's arm with one kick. If you need to.'

'And why, pray, would Sherlock need to break anyone's arm?' Mycroft asks extremely coldly.

Sherlock shoots Ford a warning look but it's too late.

'All Agents that go out in the field need to know unarmed combat, don't they, Myc?'

Mycroft's nostril's flare and his mouth tightens so much his lips become almost invisible.

'Sherlock is not, nor will he ever be, a field agent. No, don't argue with me now, Sherlock. I am going to take your brother to hospital to repair the damage that you have inflicted upon him with your ridiculous schemes. We will talk when I return.'

Sherlock spent the intervening three hours researching untraceable poisons – after he'd finished Ford's holiday prep for him.

**_June 1998_**

'What are you doing?' Mycroft's voice is laced with tiredness as he speaks from the open library door where he is slouching against the frame. Sherlock doesn't find the lapse of Mycroft's usually impeccable posture quite as surprising as his actual presence but when he checks the clock on the mantle to find that it is three in the morning he realises neither presence or stance are remarkable.

'Studying,' he says, waving his hands at the piles of books and papers scattered around him and rolling his eyes. 'Obviously.'

'Indeed,' Mycroft says dryly, 'which is why I'm asking. You only finished your GCSE's two weeks ago and you cannot possibly have been set that much prep for A-levels you haven't even begun to study for.'

'It's not prep,' Sherlock says evenly, taking another book off the nearest pile. 'And when I took my GCSE's is irrelevant. Exams are _not _the be all and end all of existence, brother mine.'

'So you keep telling me,' Mycroft says with exaggerated patience just as his eyes fix on the book stack immediately to Sherlock's left. The speed at which his expression turns thunderous makes Sherlock wish he'd remembered to put the gun manuals out of the line of sight from the door. He hadn't intended to work so late but even so, he shouldn't have let assumptions about timing make him sloppy. Every action should be calculated, thought through, careful and the knowledge he's made such a stupid mistake purely from complacency kindles a flame of annoyance in the pit of his stomach.

'Don't start,' he says sharply before Mycroft can do more than open his mouth, 'I'm not going to change my mind no matter what you say. It's my life, not yours.'

Mycroft clenches his jaw for a moment and pulls in a deep breath through his nose. When he speaks his voice is perfectly level but Sherlock is left in no doubt how much effort Mycroft is expending to make it so.

'It is your _life _I am concerned about, Sherlock. There are so many things you could do with it, so many paths you could take … and yet you persist in working towards the one thing I cannot countenance, persist in pursuing a career that can only result in the ending of it.'

Mycroft's words turn the flame to an inferno and Sherlock stands up so fast he sends his chair crashing to the floor. He can feel his whole body shaking and it takes him a few moments to get enough breath in his lungs to be able to speak.

'_All_ lives end, Mycroft!' He's shouting but he can't seem to stop himself. 'Dying is what people do! _I_ will not be ruled by the fear of death. Not by my own and certainly not by yours.'

Mycroft takes a step into the room, his face hard but his hands … his hands are reaching for Sherlock, half pleading, half in supplication.

'I don't want to _rule _you, Sherlock. I don't … but I can't just stand by and watch you do this.'

Sherlock stalks out of the room, pausing just outside the doorway and turning to lock eyes with Mycroft.

His voice is flat and cold when he says, 'Then I suggest you don't look.'

Sherlock avoids Mycroft entirely for three days but then awakes, at the desk in the library, on the fourth morning after their argument to find Mycroft watching him from the window seat.

'Your best suit has been laid out and you have half an hour to get changed. M has agreed to meet with you and you will not be late so I suggest you go and have a shower this minute.'

Sherlock glares at Mycroft for a moment and then heads straight for the bathroom.

He's not doing this because Mycroft told him to but because he's curious. Sherlock has known Mycroft possesses a level of power well beyond the reach of an ordinary civil servant since he succeeded in cracking the safe in the secret cupboard in Mycroft's rooms two years ago but, somehow, getting an audience with M makes it real in a way files on foreign networks and internal dissidents just couldn't. This trip will give him information he could not obtain any other way and so, for once, he does exactly as he is bid.

The journey to Whitehall is completed in silence, Mycroft flicking through the daily papers whilst Sherlock remains motionless in his seat as he catalogues his surroundings. He isn't really in a position to get a good look at the building he's whisked into but sees enough as he's swept up corridors and ushered into lifts that he could find his way again, should the need arise.

'I really appreciate this, M,' Mycroft says as she steps out of her office and waves them both inside. Sherlock shakes her hand and takes the seat she points him to but says nothing as she assures Mycroft she's happy to speak with him.

'Sherlock, I'm not staying. Speak to M's assistant, Eve when you and M have finished and she will have you escorted to a car and taken home.'

Sherlock nods but does not make eye contact, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the positively repugnant bulldog on M's desk even after the door has shut and he and M are alone.

'Drink?'

Sherlock looks up sharply at the ring of crystal to find M pulling two tumblers and a bottle of Scotch out of a cupboard at the side of the room.

'I'm sixteen.'

'I'm aware.'

'My brother would not approve.'

'Given that we are both sitting here because he believes you do not care about his opinion, I find that statement surprising.'

'I'm not sure why. After all it's true. And I was saying it more for your benefit than mine.'

M purses her lips before bringing both glasses and bottle to her desk. 'I think, in this instance, what Mycroft doesn't know won't hurt him.'

Sherlock narrows his eyes as she pours two generous measures and then holds a glass out to him. 'It's also only nine o'clock in the morning.'

'That would not have stopped your father.'

'Maybe, but I am not him.' He catches the flash of amusement in her eyes and leans back in the chair, crossing his legs and tilting his head as he really looks at her.

'I was under the impression this would be a half hour lecture on the dangers inherent in every aspect of a field agent's life, so why do I feel like you're interviewing me?'

M smiles at him and pushes both tumblers to one side. 'You were incredibly self-possessed as a thirteen year old as well. I'm glad to see your brightness hasn't dimmed over the years.'

Sherlock feels his cheeks heating at the unexpected compliment and utters the first thing that comes into his head. 'What am I really doing here?'

M emits a snort of laughter and her eyes flash with amusement and something a bit darker. 'Finding out what you're capable of.'

**_June 2000_**

'This is Lestrade, my new Chief-of-Staff,' M says, as she pushes the door to a brightly lit office open. Sherlock sniggers internally as the man in question hurriedly swings his feet off his desk and almost drops his coffee and doughnut in the process. 'Lestrade, this is Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft's younger brother, who hopes to join us as an agent after he's completed university. I do believe I mentioned that he would be visiting today.'

'You did.' Lestrade briskly rubs his hands together and then moves forward to greet Sherlock. 'I was just …'

'Going back to your roots,' M says caustically, giving the doughnut a pointed look that confirms Sherlock's initial impression of the man. 'I want you both in my office at twelve. That gives you two hours to get to know each other.'

'I don't think we need two hours,' Sherlock says lazily, looking Lestrade up and down. 'Well, I don't anyway. I barely need two minutes. You were in the police, CID I should think from the stance, the haircut and the off-the-peg suit. You're married with two young children, both girls, a Labrador retriever and at least two guinea pigs.'

Sherlock's eyes roam over the rest of the office, noting the creases in the spine of the day planner and the dates on the articles pinned up on the wall before turning back to M. '_You_ poached him from Scotland Yard just over six months ago, after that fiasco in Pimlico.' Sherlock looks between the two of them, taking in the flickers in both their eyes.

'He was far more tenacious than you expected and kept pulling at the loose ends, so you decided you'd rather have him on your side than deal with the added complication of working round him where he was. Then, once he was here you realised he was a natural leader as well as being of above average intelligence and not easily intimidated; hence making him your Chief-of-Staff so quickly.'

M nods at Lestrade, who is openly gaping at Sherlock. 'I did tell you.'

'How did you … you got your brother to show you my file?'

'Mycroft doesn't even know I'm in the building,' Sherlock says coldly. 'He doesn't approve of my becoming a field agent in the slightest. He certainly wouldn't help me impress you.'

'It's true Mycroft has reservations over Sherlock's choice of career,' M says in response to Lestrade's questioning look, 'but that boils down to the fact that both his parents were lost on a mission and he doesn't want his brother in such a risky profession.'

'Which is stupid,' Sherlock says abruptly, stalking over to the window and staring blankly out towards the horizon. 'It's only risky if you don't know what you're doing.'

'And you do, I suppose,' Lestrade says, taking the file M holds out to him before she makes a silent exit and then walking over to stand at Sherlock's side.

'Yes,' Sherlock turns and meets his gaze squarely, 'I do.'

'Show me then,' Lestrade says, handing over the file.

**_December 2002_**

_The dark skies and pouring rain are utterly appropriate_, Sherlock thinks, turning the collar up on his coat and stepping into the lee of the church to light a cigarette. He can see Mycroft down by the grave in a cluster of umbrellas, face serious as he talks quietly to men who wouldn't recognise Sherlock if they tripped over him but with whose lives Sherlock is, thanks to the woman they've just buried, intimately acquainted.

'Just come over here and ask for one,' Sherlock says when a tiny movement by the church door catches his eye.

'I thought you might want to be alone,' Lestrade says, shaking his head when Sherlock holds out the cigarette packet and then pulls out one of his own. 'You sent Sherrinford off home pretty swiftly.'

'I didn't like the way Hayden was looking at him,' Sherlock mutters. Lestrade nods and, thankfully, lets the matter drop. Because whilst true, that isn't the real reason he insisted Ford go home. No, it was down to the fact that Ford kept looking at him as if he expected Sherlock to give in to his grief at any moment and right now, when he really, really wants to, he can't take the risk that the understanding in Ford's eyes might precipitate it.

Lestrade blows a thin stream of smoke into the air and says, apropos of nothing, 'Mycroft has been offered M's role.'

'I know.'

'He told you?'

Sherlock remains silent.

'Ah, like that is it? You really need to stop stealing his papers, Sherlock. He'll work it out one of these days.'

'I hardly think so, not after six years.'

'Still …'

'Don't lecture, Lestrade, you know you're wasting your breath.'

Lestrade turns his laugh into a cough and shakes his head. 'At least you're honest with me.'

'I trust you,' Sherlock leans back against the damp brickwork and lights a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old before looking up to see Lestrade looking at him with a strange expression on his face. 'What?'

'I … nothing. How's Uni going?'

'It is tedious and a waste of my talents. I could teach it better than some of the idiots who claim to be Professors.'

'You're going to jack it in then? Now …' Lestrade waves his hand towards M's grave.

'No.'

'No?'

'I made an agreement with Mycroft that if I completed my degree I could pursue a career of my own choosing and I made M a promise that I would honour the agreement. I will not break that promise.'

**_June 2003_**

'I did what you and M asked, Mycroft. I went to Cambridge, got my First and now I've come back for my job.' Sherlock slams his hands down onto Mycroft's desk. 'You're being completely ridiculous about this. I don't need you to protect me or whatever the hell it is you think you're doing. I am _not_ a child!'

'Then stop acting like one,' Mycroft snaps, pushing his chair back and standing so they are almost nose to nose. 'Shouting and storming like a toddler having a temper tantrum will make no difference to my decision. _I_ am running this Agency now and, regardless of what you believe was agreed, I'm telling you that we are not looking for new agents at the moment. In fact, where you are concerned, we never will be.'

'Is that what you'll tell Ford, too?'

'If he asks to become a field agent? Yes.'

Sherlock glares at Mycroft for a heartbeat then whirls out of the room without another word, slamming the door behind him so hard he sets the bookshelves rattling.

'That could have gone better,' Lestrade says from his perch by the window.

'He can't have expected me to do anything else,' Mycroft says firmly, sitting back down and fixing his eyes on the file he'd been working on before Sherlock came barging in. 'He has always known what my stance was on this. He _will_ come round once he's calmed down. He has no other option.'

_I wouldn't be so sure_, Lestrade thinks as he stares at the still vibrating units, _I really wouldn't be so sure_.

It took less than three days for Lestrade's gloomy thoughts to be proved correct, Ford arriving at lunchtime looking pale and drawn and clutching a handwritten note from Sherlock.

'… and he's taken nothing with him at all?' Mycroft's been questioning Ford for over an hour and Lestrade can't help but feel sorry for him.

'He's told you that already, M,' he says, stepping between the two brothers and taking the now extremely crumpled note out of Mycroft's hands and reading the few scrawled lines again.

_I will not remain here to watch my life be stolen from me by my brother of all people. Ford, I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye in person but I thought it best to make a clean break. I hope, in time, you will forgive me._

'I'm willing to bet this is the only clue Sherlock has left us.'

'Of course you are,' Mycroft practically snarls, moving right into Lestrade's personal space. 'You taught him how. Did you help him with this the way you helped him with everything else?'

'I did not.' Lestrade didn't step back, more than aware that he wasn't the person Mycroft was really angry with. 'I had no idea he would do this.'

'Are you really asking me to believe he told you nothing either?'

'I'm not asking you to do anything,' Lestrade says, staring steadily into Mycroft's eyes, 'I'm simply telling you the truth. Sherlock hasn't spoken to me since you refused to let him take the Agent tests.'

'That makes no sense,' Mycroft says, sagging into his chair and dropping his head into his hands. 'He idolises you.'

'Hardly,' Lestrade retorts.

'It makes perfect sense, Mycroft,' Ford interrupts, stepping up behind Mycroft and resting one hand on his shoulder, 'Sherlock knows how this place works, probably better than you if we're going to be completely honest about it, and he knew Lestrade would be honour bound to tell you if he had anything to tell.'

Mycroft looks up and gives Lestrade a curt nod that Lestrade accepts as an apology because he knows it's the best he's going to get and asks the same question he first posed ten minutes after Ford arrived.

'What are your orders, sir?'

'Find him. I don't care what it takes, Lestrade, just find Sherlock and bring him home.'

**_January 2004_**

'Oh, I'm so sorry,' Ford says automatically when the man who blocked his line of vision to the painting a minute earlier then steps back to admire it better and trips over Ford's feet.

'You always did have a propensity for apologising when I was the one causing you pain.'

The voice is a soft, a melodic Scandinavian cadence that also hints at an American past with a twang that conjures thoughts of New Jersey or somewhere along the seaboard and yet Ford knows it instantly. Shakily he helps the stranger onto the bench and fights the urge to fling his arms round him.

'Mycroft cannot know.'

'I …'

'I don't want to lose you, Ford,' Sherlock murmurs, their conversation entirely shielded by the bustle of the tourists in the gallery, 'but I will not let him back in my life.'

Ford closes his eyes for moment, considering. Then he nods his head once. 'If he does manage to find you it won't be because of me.'

'Good enough.' Sherlock offers his hand. 'Sigerson. James Sigerson. It's a pleasure to meet you Mr …'

'The pleasure is all mine, _James_. And please, just call me Ford.'

**_January 2005_**

'We're really going to do this every year?'

'Well I admit that we might get somewhat bored of the painting in years to come. After all even Turner can pall after repeated exposure.'

'You seem happy.'

'It's not what I would have chosen but I'm making it work.'

'I found your website.'

'And?'

'The Deduction of Science? Couldn't you have come up with something a little snappier?'

'There's nothing wrong with it.'

'It might be acceptable if the rest of the site wasn't so boring.'

'I'd like to see you do any better.'

'Challenge accepted.'

**_January 2006_**

'I think I ought to thank you. I'm certainly getting a far more interesting set of clientele these days.'

'I'm not sure I should be thanked for getting you the attention of people like that.'

'I know what I'm doing, Ford.'

'That's what worries me.'

**_January 2007_**

'You're working for him.'

'Yes. Just desk job, nothing exciting but … well. I enjoy it.'

'Good. That's good.'

'He misses you, you know. Really misses you.'

Sherlock is gone so fast Ford barely catches a glimpse of his back as he leaves.

**_January 2008_**

'Is there anything else I'm not allowed to say?'

'I shouldn't have left like that. It was … irrational.'

'I thought you might not come.'

'Yet you came anyway.'

'Oh. I see.'

'Good. Then let's not waste our time on regrets.'

**_January 2009_**

'I really don't think you should have accepted this one. Your new boss is not a very nice man if the rumours are to be believed.'

'I am aware of that. He hasn't exactly been shy about making a name for himself.'

'A name no-one says. It's like he's trying to make a myth out of himself. All we're hearing are whispers that we can't track down.'

'I can assure you he exists. More than that … I need more time.'

'Have you lost your mind? You're a scientist, not an agent.'

'I'm more than capable of being both. And we both know you could use the intelligence.'

**_ January 2010_**

'I wasn't sure you'd be able to get away.'

Sherlock sits down on the bench, sparing a cursory glance for the now familiar painting before looking properly at Ford. 'I made you a promise, little brother. I don't intend to break it.'

'It's not worth your safety.'

'I'm not compromised and I know you aren't … Q'

'How did you … no, don't tell me. No doubt it's something to do with the way I've laced my shoes or the product I've put in my hair.'

Sherlock gives a soft huff of laughter. 'Something like that. I should say congratulations but I cannot see how that can be appropriate when it means you have to work any more closely with M than you already were.'

'He's still looking for you, you know.'

Sherlock shakes his head and starts to get up when Ford catches his arm. 'Alright, I'm sorry. I won't mention it again.'

Sherlock lets himself be pulled back down. 'Fine. What do you want to talk about?'

'Well for a start you can tell me who Victor is.'

'He's a colleague. And I really do wish you wouldn't hack my emails.'

'You used to pick the lock on my journal.'

'That's entirely different.'

'I don't see how.'

**_November 2010_**

'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't sack you on the spot!'

'You need me. I'm the best Quartermaster this organisation has ever had,' Ford says resolutely, swallowing hard before continuing. 'And because you won't get Sherlock out of there without me.'

'You would barter your brother's life for your job?'

'Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. You know perfectly well I don't mean that.'

'No. Sherlock trusts you in a way that he wouldn't trust me. For good reason.'

'That doesn't matter now.' Ford gestures Mycroft back to his desk and pulls out his own laptop. 'What matters is that Sherlock is working in a lab somewhere in Switzerland that makes Baskerville look like a school science fair and whatever he's working on has consequences far reaching enough that he's willing to give up his new life to make sure it doesn't fall into the wrong hands. We _have_ to get this right.'

Mycroft nods and picks up his phone. 'Lestrade, I need you in here immediately.'

**_March 2011_**

The flat they take him to is on Montague Street, on the top floor of a house sandwiched between two hotels. It's clean, sparse and entirely impersonal; Sherlock hates it instantly but says nothing as he walks back into the living room and curls up in the chair furthest from the door.

'Don't touch me,' he snarls as Mycroft reaches for him, jerking his arm away and wrapping his coat more tightly round himself as he fixes his eyes on the skirting board under the window. 'Don't come anywhere near me. If I can't talk to Ford I'm certainly not going to talk to you.'

'I'll stay with him, Mycroft,' Lestrade says gently. 'I can be debriefed later.'

'Thank you, Lestrade but this is my responsibility. Sherlock, I …'

'_Leave me alone_, Mycroft.'

'I know you don't want to hear this but ...'

'No, I don't! Get out, Mycroft. Just GET OUT!'

Sherlock hears a low sigh and then, blessedly, retreating footsteps and the click of a door.

'Talk to me,' Lestrade says, sitting down on the sofa opposite. 'You need to talk to someone, Sherlock, trust me on this one.'

Sherlock grits his teeth, keeps his head lowered and says nothing. It makes no difference, Lestrade just sits there. Sherlock can feel his eyes on the crown of his head and the silence is thick with words unspoken.

'He wasn't supposed to be there,' Sherlock says eventually. 'He was supposed to take the day off.'

'Who?'

'Don't be deliberately obtuse, Lestrade, it doesn't suit you.'

'Fine. Then why don't you tell me why you won't say Victor's name.'

'It's not going make him any the less dead, is it?' Sherlock is on his feet in an instant, prowling the small space and tugging on his coat with hands he cannot still. 'It's not going make the fact that he got shot and I couldn't get to him before Mycroft's goons dragged me out of there any easier for me to accept, is it?'

Lestrade shakes his head, still trying to reconcile the image of Sherlock he's had his head these past eight years - Sherlock at twenty one, all dark curls, tailored suits and an arrogant elegance that made him seem younger than his years- with the man in front of him. He's not sure what disturbs him most, the lanky blonde tresses, the way he can practically see every bone through the mismatched t-shirt and trousers or the fact that Sherlock has just frozen in the middle of the room, face devoid of all emotion.

'Sherlock?'

'I'm the only one left alive, aren't I?'

Lestrade looks at Sherlock's expression, swallows hard and then, very quietly, says 'Yes.'

Sherlock is motionless, his breath coming in harsh gasps. Slowly they even out and he straightens up. His face is completely blank.

'How long did it take you and Ford to persuade Mycroft I wasn't expendable too?'

'Sherlock!' Lestrade is on his feet, abruptly furious. 'I know you have your differences but he is your brother. Do you have any idea what you did to him when you disappeared?'

'I did nothing to him,' Sherlock says coolly, letting his coat puddle on the floor and beginning to strip the rest of his clothes off. 'Caring is not an advantage, Lestrade. He taught me that very early on.' He is now naked bar a pair of grey cotton boxers, his hands resting on his jutting hipbones as he fixes Lestrade with an imperious stare. 'I suggest you show me where the kit is so I can sort my appearance out and acquaint myself with my new identity before I am required to report to "M" tomorrow.'

Lestrade blindly gropes for the bag he'd tucked behind the sofa, still trying to process the complete turnaround in Sherlock's demeanour. Not fast enough for Sherlock, apparently, as he strides forward, snatches it out of Lestrade's hands and then points towards the door. 'I'll bolt it after you. Now if you don't mind …'

Lestrade is halfway down the road when he realises he didn't ask whether Sherlock and Victor were more than friends. It takes a mile and a half to shake the feeling that it might matter.

**_12.30 pm on Friday 10th June 2011_**

**_The clock starts … _**

John wakes with a jolt, heart pounding as he reaches for a gun he no longer sleeps with before he remembers where he is and flops back onto his screwed up pillows, breathing hard. _Just a nightmare_, he tells himself_, just another nightmare. Daymare really_, he acknowledges with a grimace as he notices the time on the clock.

He's only been doing locum cover on the night shift at Bart's A&E for three days but he just can't seem to get the hang of sleeping during the day. Which is daft really, since he'd learnt to sleep at the drop of a hat out in Afghanistan when every bit of rest was a precious commodity you didn't waste.

He closes his eyes and tries to do now what he did then but that just allows more images of mortar attacks and I.E.D. blasts to surface in his mind and, between those and the growing feeling of wrongness he's had since he woke, he just knows he's not going to get back to sleep any time soon.

Swinging himself out of bed and grabbing his cane he heads to the kitchen to make some tea, flipping the TV on for company as he waits for the kettle to boil.

'Breaking news,' says the newsreader in a tone of such seriousness John's attention is caught immediately, 'We are getting reports of a huge explosion in the centre of London. People as far as five miles from Montague Street, which is just by the British Museum, report feeling the blast just five minutes ago and all emergency services have been put on high alert. First indications are that this is not a terrorist attack but …'

John doesn't hear any more, already turning back to the bedroom to pull his clothes on when his phone starts to ring.

'John, it's Mike. There's been a …'

'I know. I just saw the news. I'll be with you in twenty minutes.'

* * *

**Further note:** I am fully aware that Bart's only has a Minor Injuries unit, not a full A&E and so the victims of the bomb blast wouldn't have been taken there (Bart's A&E was closed in 1995 and the provision transferred to the Royal London, over in Whitechapel). I'm taking liberties to fit in with the canon meeting place and thus pretending the transfer of services never happened. In reality, if there had been a bomb blast on that scale the first casualties would have been taken to the University College Hospital on Euston Road (which is barely four minutes away), then to St Thomas' (across the river at Lambeth around 13 mins away) and only when both of those had reached capacity would they send them to the Royal London, which is twenty minutes away). Since Bart's is physically closer than St Thomas' (being only 8 mins away from Montague Street) I made the assumption that both UCH and Bart's would have sent ambulances straight away and Mike would have called John for back up pretty swiftly.


	2. Chapter 2 - Chain reactions

**_12.34 pm Friday 10th June 2011_**

**_On the opposite side of the river …_**

_Beautiful_, Moriarty thinks as he watches the plume of smoke swell and billow upwards from Montague Street, framing the dome of St Paul's like a mocking memory of the Blitz. The glass in the window in front of him is still shaking, now almost imperceptibly, from the impact of the explosion. Smiling lazily as a sudden cacophony of sirens reaches his ears, despite being fifty three floors up, he starts swinging to and fro in the large leather chair he's currently occupying. Definitely a good choice, he decides as he lets his eyes roam round the expensively furnished living room of the apartment in the Shard which - until half an hour ago – belonged to a rather uninteresting banker whose blood is now seeping into the hand-woven rug on the floor. It would take less than two minutes to learn the name of his unfortunate benefactor but he doesn't bother. This is only a brief stop, after all.

A place to watch the show.

And what a show it is. The smoke is now greying out a good portion of the London skyline to the north west of the explosion's epicentre and he can hear the panic start to ricochet around the adjoining flats. The entire city will be in chaos for days to come thanks to this not-so-little piece of theatre, especially once the reporters find the breadcrumb trail he's so thoughtfully had laid on for them. M will be too busy fire-fighting the implication that he abused his position to shield a wanted criminal to be in a position to help his little brother.

Even if M were to be able to find Sherlock Holmes in the first place.

Which, he acknowledges with a genuine smile of pleasure as he pulls out a phone and begins to text, isn't going to be possible. Because this final piece of misdirection will ensure neither M nor Q will realise they need to start looking until it's too late to pick up a trail. It is _so_ lovely when people are just intelligent enough to be fooled by a misplaced faith in their own abilities. It almost makes things too easy.

Text sent he turns the phone off and raises his eyes to the wonderful view again. _No, Sherlock_, he thinks viciously, _this time you're not going to be rescued by Big Brother. I've already paid for your services – albeit when you were playing at being someone else – and now I'm going to collect what I'm owed._

Not that he hasn't already got something out of their association. Theft and deceit notwithstanding, Sherlock's been the most entertaining adversary he's ever had, not to mention the most intelligent. It's the first time he's sparred with someone who can meet him on his own level so he thinks he can be excused for confusing manipulation for arrogance when Sherlock began their little game.

He won't make the same mistake again, though. He may lose battles but he certainly doesn't lose wars.

He stands and nods to the black clad, muscle bound figure guarding the door, who immediately steps out to gather his team and check their exit route is secure.

'You played well, Sherlock' he says aloud once he is alone, turning back to take one last look in the direction of the blast. 'But not well enough. And now it's time for you to learn exactly what failure costs.'

**_8.30 am Friday 10th June 2011  
Four hours before the explosion …_**

'We have contact,' Sebastian says, wandering back into the bedroom. He shuts the door before handing over a non-descript mobile. 'I've verified it.'

Taking it, Moriarty looks down, lips curling into a thin smile as he reads the rather disjointed text.

_JS here tomorrow am. Requested full team and viral lab. This is it – DA_

'It seems our threats were taken seriously. Goes to show some people, at least, know when their best option is to co-operate.'

'I'm up then?'

'Yes, Seb, you're up. Feels like we've been waiting forever for this, doesn't it?'

'Yeah.' Sebastian shoots him a razor sharp grin as he saunters across the room and begins, methodically, to get dressed and gather his gear. 'I checked the latest intel on the Boy Wonder.'

'And?'

'He's left the flat already. Gone to that café by the British Museum he spends half his mornings in.'

'Good job I don't leave anything to chance then, isn't it, darling?' Moriarty says as he pulls another phone out and fires off a couple of messages. 'Don't worry, he may not know he has an appointment with you but I'll make sure he isn't late.'

**_9.55 am Friday 10th June 2011  
Two and a half hours before the explosion …_**

'Excuse me.'

Sherlock raises his eyes from his laptop to find Lestrade, wearing heavy glasses and a rather unfortunate cardigan, hovering on the other side of his table.

'I … I thought I recognised you. It's Peter, isn't it? Peter, um, Guillam, yes? I don't suppose you remember me?'

Sherlock narrows his eyes for a moment. His weekly "check-in" with one of Lestrade's team had been yesterday, so for Lestrade himself to appear, now, has him on full alert. He allows his expression to morph into a smile of recognition and gestures for him to sit.

'I couldn't forget you, _Sir_,' he says suavely. 'You were the only teacher who didn't take any nonsense from me.'

'You did have a bit of a reputation, I'll give you that,' Lestrade responds, tasting his coffee and wincing slightly. 'What are you doing with yourself nowadays? I always pictured you working for one of the big tech companies.'

'Close,' Sherlock answers as he uses the motion of closing his laptop to scan behind him for anyone in earshot. 'I work for most of them … Freelance IT,' he continues as he slips the laptop into his bag and scopes out the other side of the cafe at the same time. 'You know … data recovery, software patches and the like.'

'Hmm. Makes sense. You always did only complete the projects you were interested in.'

'Yes. It keeps things … clean.' Sherlock sits back in his chair and gives Lestrade a very pointed look. 'So what brings you to London?'

'My cousin Jim's wedding. The wedding party is due to arrive in an hour or so and I decided to escape the madness while I could.'

'I don't blame you, Sir, I … Oh, excuse me!' Sherlock pulls his mobile out and furrows his brow at the screen.

'Is everything alright?'

'No. No it's not.' Sherlock says as he stands, slinging his bag across him at the same time. 'There's a problem with one of my system patches. I'm afraid I'm going to have to skip out on you.'

'Well it was nice to see you again, Peter,' Lestrade says effusively, scrambling to his feet and shaking Sherlock's hand with both of his own. 'Hope you get it sorted.'

'Thanks!' Sherlock calls over his shoulder as he hurries out of the café, carefully unfolding - in the palm of his hand so the movement is invisible to anyone else - the tiny piece of paper Lestrade had slipped him. Using the cover of checking for something in his wallet he pauses just in front of the gates to the British Museum to read three words in Ford's almost incomprehensible scribble.

_8pm. Our place._

An apparent coughing fit gets the paper in to his mouth and down his throat and then he straightens, face placid but mind racing as he heads for the flat.

Could this just be coincidence?

No, he shakes his head, not today, when barely two hours have passed since he sent instructions to Baskerville that he was ready to generate the gene-delivery virus. Someone in the lab is a mole.

Quickening his stride – the sooner he gets to the flat and strips himself of this persona the sooner he can get off radar for the day and work out who the leak is – he swiftly wipes all the data from his phone's hard drive before removing the SIM; discreetly snapping it and then dropping it down a drain as he crosses the road to his door. Where he pauses, key in the lock.

There are two fresh scratches across the key plate and some scuffing on the paintwork, indicating someone other than him has made an attempt to gain entry. The two other flats in the building are empty and he knows, because MI6 own them as well, that no one was expected today. Brushing his fingertip over the scuff mark he dislodges flakes of paint, which tells him just how recently it was made. A swift glance upward shows the curtains of his room are drawn. He left them open.

As he realises someone is waiting for him in his flat the nagging sensation he's been feeling in the back of his mind – akin to the almost-pain of a loose tooth – since Lestrade delivered the message, coalesces in an instant.

_Cousin Jim_.

Lestrade could just have said his cousin's wedding and the code would have worked but he made a direct reference to Moriarty. Something he would only have done if Ford had instructed him to, meaning that Ford thinks he's picked up a communication from Moriarty himself.

Which, in turn, means that not only is Baskerville compromised but so is all the intelligence coming from Q branch and, since Moriarty isn't to be underestimated, MI6 as a whole. Because if there's one thing Sherlock's learnt about the man behind the myth in the past two and a half years it's that no-one hears anything directly from Moriarty that he doesn't want them to hear.

Uncomfortably aware that he's been frozen on his own doorstep for longer than is plausible for a normal entrance he gives the key a last, disgusted twist and then yanks it out, storming away as if he's been unable to make it work. He pulls his entirely useless phone out of his pocket and gives the impression of making a call as he enters the hotel next door, hoping that luck is on his side. It is, the receptionist busy, sparing not a glance for a man who clearly knows where he's going. It's the work of mere minutes to dash up the stairs, get into their attic, and turn what he'd always intended to be an escape route into a method of entry.

He knows as soon as he's uncovered the hole in the adjoining wall and squeezed through into his own flat's attic that his deduction was right. He can hear movement below him and, oddly, the sharp smell of formaldehyde is permeating the air.

Taking a controlled breath he allows his foot to hover over the loft hatch for a moment before stamping down hard, barely waiting for it to swing open before he drops into the room underneath.

**_12.42 pm Friday 10th June 2011  
Q branch, ten minutes after the explosion…_**

'Sherlock wasn't in there,' Ford says quietly, with a gesture to the huge screen in the main office that is showing the initial news footage of the explosion. His six analysts are working frantically out there, barely sparing a glance for the arrival of M in their boss's room; too busy shouting to each other and talking into headsets as they co-ordinate agents and track police, bomb-squad, fire crews, paramedics - the works.

'And you know this how?' Mycroft says, coolly.

Ford's tempted just to shove the message he decrypted not five minutes ago in front of Mycroft's face but he knows that he needs to explain properly if he wants to avoid both being verbally eviscerated for withholding information and initially disbelieved. So he angles the screen in front of him towards Mycroft, waiting until he's moved so he can see it fully before typing in rapid flurries.

'These are the three lines of communication we picked up when we hacked partial access to their servers for a couple of hours while the team were clearing out the Reichenbach lab. These two here …' Ford points at the top and the bottom streams of data. '… are purely incoming, being used to provide updates on the progress of the two remaining two labs, wherever they are.' He wrinkles his nose in disgust as he adds, as an aside, 'They're too well scrambled to trace locations.'

'So this one …?' Mycroft's fingers trail across the middle of the screen.

'I initially thought it was just Moran's method of contacting one of their assassins. But the language was sometimes a little off and then … you remember the sniper attempt on 006?'

Mycroft gives a barely perceptible nod and Ford continues. 'Well, _this_ line was where I got the intel on it from. And several of the texts demanding updates were sent at the same time 006 was grappling with the sniper, who 006 positively identified as Moran.'

'Which leaves us with only one logical conclusion. The M sending the texts was Moriarty. So now …' Mycroft narrows his eyes and turns his attention from the screen to Ford. '… there is only one question remaining. Why didn't you notify me three weeks ago that you had this?'

'I wasn't sure. Even with all of that it wasn't conclusive proof. So I just kept an eye on it. There wasn't much activity, to be honest. Which makes sense, in hindsight, given what Sherlock said about Moran and Moriarty's relationship and the subterfuge … If they're usually in the same place there'd be no reason for them to risk electronic communication when they could just speak to each other. There's been more activity in the past week, though. Moran's been searching for something, although I couldn't tell what until this morning, when …'

'Sherlock's name started flashing up all over the place and Moran was summoned back from wherever he'd been to take care of the problem. Yes, at least you saw fit to share that with me.' Mycroft's voice was pure ice.

'Don't take on so,' Ford said mildly, 'I wasn't shutting you out deliberately. I wanted to be sure.'

'And you are now?' Mycroft queries, eyebrow arching imperiously.

'Yes. I was sure when the messages turned up earlier, spouting about revenge on Sherlock but now I have hard evidence … because he's worked out I've been tapping the line. Look.'

Mycroft leans forward as Ford's fingers race over the keypad and a new window springs up in the middle of the screen:

**Outgoing -12:35 – 10062011**

**Hello Q. Or should I call you Sherrinford? It seems I've been remiss in getting to know you properly and thus have underestimated your skills. It really is so important not to write people off just because they work in their brother's shadow. I'm actually quite impressed. You must have warned Sherlock almost immediately for him to evade my best man. I don't like being inconvenienced, though, so I thought I'd even things up a little. You might tell Sherlock that leaving chemicals around his flat is just asking for things to explode. Although it was rather spectacular, even if I do say so myself. Please give your eldest brother my regards. I'll give Sherlock my regards myself. After all, he can't hide forever, not from me, anyway – M**

'He's turned the phone off,' Ford says as Mycroft opens his mouth. 'I'm running blind again.'

'Not quite blind,' Mycroft gives a smile that makes Ford shiver where he sits. 'Mr Moriarty may have let a lot more slip with that little taunt than he realises.'

**_1.57 pm Friday 10th June 2011  
A house on the outskirts of London …_**

Henno shifts his stance minutely, biceps flexing under black cotton as he re-crosses his arms. He doesn't sigh and he doesn't lean back to rest against the newel post of the stairs he's standing in front of. The only visible concession he does make to the fact that the Boss hasn't turned up yet is to allow his gaze to drop to his watch for a moment so he can check just how late the other man is.

Forty three minutes he realises, lifting his gaze back up to the empty expanse of gravel drive visible through the hall window. Too long. Especially when he was supposed to be clear of the flat half an hour before he set the bomb off. A brief radio conversation with Pete (upstairs) and Ed (back porch) confirm that the Boss hasn't decided to make his entrance from another direction and all is quiet. Henno glances down the corridor that stretches away to the back of the house and the kitchen which currently contains the man they're all there to protect and wonders exactly how long it will stay that way.

Not long, he thinks two minutes later as a huge crash – loud enough to remind him of the time he accidentally knocked over his mother's dresser when he was ten – reverberates up the corridor. It's swiftly followed by a shriek of rage and the smash of breaking crockery.

'Hold your positions,' he says into his comms unit as he sprints down the corridor and slides to a halt in front of the open kitchen door. It takes him less than three seconds to case the room and determine that, as expected, Mr Jim is on his own and perfectly safe before two plates and a glass come flying towards him and he has to duck out of the way.

'Sir!' He calls from the relative safely of the corridor. 'It's Henno, Sir. Can I come in?'

There's no answer other than a cacophony of clangs and bangs that indicate the saucepans are going the same way as the crockery. _My life would be so much easier if the Boss's fancy piece was just a woman_, Henno thinks, and not for the first time. He knows how to deal with women, irate or otherwise. Hell, he's had enough practice over the years. If it were a woman smashing everything in sight he'd already be in the room, attempting to calm and soothe with a mix of compliments and commiserations. As it is he'd rather take on a pit of black mambas whilst blindfolded than venture into the company of an irate Mr Jim. Nonetheless, he has his orders and he isn't going to get bawled out by the Boss on account of an effeminate fuck who's never done a hard days work in his life. Even if the man does scare the living shit out of him.

Taking a deep breath he gives the all clear over the radio and then steps back in front of the doorway, hoping he's not going to get a pot to the head like the last time Mr Jim lost his cool.

He doesn't.

Instead he comes face to face with the man himself.

'Seb is late,' Mr Jim says. His voice is calm, almost disinterested. His stance is casual - hands tucked in the pockets of his dove grey suit - but he's tilting his head from side to side and his eyes … His eyes are wide and dark and, in their depths, there is that wildness which holds the promise of exquisite pain if what he wants is not forthcoming. Henno has to fight all his instincts not to take a step back.

'He is. I've not received an SOS though. He's not made contact at all, so I'm going to …'

'No!' Mr Jim yells, face contorted with rage for an instant before it goes back to placid calm. 'You're not going to do anything without my say so, are you? Because you answer to _me_ when Seb isn't here. _Don't you_, Henno?'

'Yes Sir!' He agrees in a rush, unwilling to test at what point Mr Jim's forced calm will break again as a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature spreads though his entire body. He's a big bloke and normally he wouldn't find such a slight, almost vulnerable looking man frightening.

_Normally _only the thought of angering the Boss - who unfortunately _has_ given standing orders that they are to obey Mr Jim when he isn't there - would have stopped him from showing someone who looks so prissy who really should be the one in charge.

But Mr Jim is a much more than just a pretty piece of arse. His particular skill set means he's part of the Network too, although Henno isn't sure quite what level he's at, given the veils of secrecy they all operate under. All Henno knows is that, ex-SAS or not, he couldn't hold out long against Mr Jim's methods of interrogation and that the Head of the Network – whom he's never met and never wants to, given that he sounds more fucked up than Mr Jim and the Boss combined – tasked the Boss with keeping Mr Jim safe.

He doesn't blame the Boss for getting a leg over while he's at it - there have to be perks to every job - but … the thought them doing it turns his stomach. God only knows how the Boss can shag Mr Jim, let alone sleep next to him, having watched the enjoyment Mr Jim gets from turning an unwilling informant into a mess of blood and bone.

And that is why, right now, he'd dress in drag and do the hula if Mr Jim so much as hinted that was what he wanted. Thankfully the orders that he issues are a little more mundane, if no less concerning.

'We're leaving. Now. Back to the Battersea flat. I want Vasily there when I arrive and I want a list of who else you use for op recovery. No …' He holds up his hand as Henno goes to speak and Henno's mouth snaps shut so fast he almost bites his tongue. 'Your team stays with me from now on, at least until I know exactly what, or who, has compromised the op and caused Seb to deviate from my plan.'

_He said "my plan"_, Henno notes as he relays orders to Pete and Ed over the comms, _not the Boss's plan, but his_. He steps to the side and, politely, gestures for Mr Jim to precede him up the hallway, wondering as he walks if there is something he's missing about this whole set up.

**_2.15 pm Friday 10th June 2011  
Bart's A&E …_**

John watches two orderlies adeptly pilot the trolley, containing the man he's just prevented from bleeding to death, off down the crowded corridor toward the ICU_. _He's been here an hour already but it was obvious from the minute he arrived and was barely given two minutes to scrub up before people were shouting for him, that this was going to be bad.

A ruptured gas main on a street containing more than its fair share of hotels, between the British Museum and Russell Square Gardens – an explosion during lunchtime was really a recipe for disaster. Although, according to one of the paramedics who'd handed over the first victim John had treated, there would have been twice as many priority one cases if the fire alarms in the hotel closest to the blast hadn't gone off just before it happened. He supposes he should thank heaven for small mercies but, as he peels off bloodied gloves and washes up yet again, he can't find it in himself.

He can hear Mike on the phone to dispatch, having to yell to be heard over the din in the waiting room, telling them they need to divert all ambulances away from Bart's for the foreseeable future. There are people everywhere, every member of staff having turned in, but it's still not enough; this hospital just isn't big enough to take the volume of serious casualties.

He takes a deep breath and rotates his left shoulder, trying to ease the tightness of the muscle; the wound finally healed several months ago but, sometimes, he can still feel the burn of the bullet's passage. His leg pulses in response to the almost instantly quashed memory of being shot and he grips his cane tightly, closing his eyes for a second as the spasm passes.

Which it does not a moment too soon, as a young woman is wheeled into the cubicle. She moans softly as the trolley jerks to a halt, eyelids fluttering in time with her breathing. Her clothes are ripped, she's covered in dust and grit and clearly disoriented. Limping forward he begins to catalogue her injuries - face and neck badly bruised, cuts and scratches over jaw and neck, left arm hanging at an unnatural angle – until his eyes light on a silver pendant, resting in the blood smeared hollow of her collar bone. It's in the shape of a pentacle, cradled at the bottom by a crescent moon.

Suddenly he can feel the heat of the Afghan sun on the back of his neck, see it glinting off the pendant as Corporal Jones slips it on before they kit up and get out on patrol.

He shakes his head, tries to concentrate on the woman on the trolley, but the tang of copper in the air and a low, animalistic whimper from the next cubicle takes him back into his head against his will.

Back on the day Monty failed because no dog, however clever and well trained, can sniff out a command wire.

He can taste the dust laden air, see the track way shimmering in the heat, hear Monty panting nineteen to the dozen as Corporal Jones insists she will be going into the compound first.

He tries to say something about infantry soldiers being the ones paid to be in the firing line and gets a glare that could scorch wood for his trouble.

'We're the bomb disposal team, Captain,' she says, crouching to pet Monty's silky brown ears. 'We know our job.' She straightens, hand on hip. 'I signed up for this too, you know.'

She and Monty took the brunt of the blast.

'Hold on, you stubborn, brilliant woman,' he tells her as he tries to get the second tourniquet tightened.

He can feel his blood-slick fingers fumbling and failing as she just calls, brokenly, for Monty, whose whimpers had quieted almost instantly.

She goes quiet too. Well before the casevac gets to them.

Finally he manages to pull away from the memory, but others crowd in to take its place.

His mind becomes a blur of battered and bloodied faces, torn off limbs and sightless eyes.

Patients he treated while volunteering at the field hospital.

Soldiers injured and killed in the all too regular incidents on patrol.

He shuts his eyes again as the whir of Chinook blades, the desperate groans of the injured, and the rasp of air-conditioning units that can't quite manage against the hot, dust dry air of Kandahar, fill his ears.

'Doctor Watson!' A firm hand on his arm has his eyes snapping open, mouth heaving in a breath that tastes of antiseptic with a copper ting but, thankfully, not the dry earthiness of sun-heated packed dirt. 'Doctor Watson, are you alright?' The nurse, Susan, if he remembers rightly, is looking at him with a mix of worry and exasperation.

_This isn't Afghanistan_, he tells himself firmly, bites the inside of his mouth to clear the last of the fog of remembrance, then gives Sarah a firm nod before limping over to the trolley. _This is down to a ruptured gas main, not a bomb. These are civilians, not comrades. You need to FOCUS, Watson. Pull yourself together and do the job that is in front of you. Make a difference. Make it count. _

'This is Cassie,' the paramedic says, before rattling off the salient details of her injuries.

'Hello Cassie,' John says once the paramedic's finished, offering the young woman a gentle smile when she manages to focus on him, her face contorting with pain at the effort. He takes her undamaged hand and gives it a brief squeeze while Sarah finishes hooking her up to the monitors, saying as he does: 'My name is Doctor Watson and it's all going to be fine.'

**_2.31 pm Friday 10th June 2011  
The corner of Princeton Street and Bedford Row …_**

_Focus_, Sherlock orders himself as he blinks rapidly. M_ust keep moving, must focus_.

He thinks he can feel blood on his face, from the explosion …

_Was there an explosion? Did I dream that? No, head hurts. Can feel blood trickling down my face … Unless it's rain? Is it raining?_

He tilts his head up, eyes widening as he stares at the sky. The colours are swirling round him, the pavement keeps tilting, everything's floating and …

_Drugs! Have I been drugged? No. My flat. Moran. Fighting. Then running. Alarm. Explosion. I Fell. Or was pushed? No, Fell. _He shakes his head._ Doesn't matter. Need to concentrate, need to keep moving … need to get away from here … wherever here is _…

He blinks again, turning on the spot as he tries to find a street sign or landmark he recognises but his ears are ringing so loudly it hurts, his stomach is lurching and he can feel himself losing his balance. He's staggering, bumping into a wall but even that's not enough to keep him upright and his legs are giving way …. Suddenly there's a face looming over him; distorted, like a Dali, with huge eyes and lips that are moving without making any sound.

_One of Moriarty's men? Mycroft's? Doesn't matter. Not safe. No where's safe. Must get away._

His fingers scrabble against the pavement but his legs feel odd, unlike his own, and his vision's so blurry he can't tell what's near him at all. And then there are warm hands and soothing murmurs and he's being helped to his feet. He tries to tell them he's ok, that he doesn't need their help, but he can't get the words right and they just keep making him walk until he's too tired to care any more …

**_3.12 pm Friday 10th June 2011  
Bart's A&E again …_**

_Severe head trauma, either from flying debris or being floored by the blast_, is John first thought as a dazed man is practically carried through the reception doors, a gash on his hairline having sent rivulets of blood coursing down pale skin and knife-sharp cheekbones. John's second thought, as he limps forward and catches a glimpse of verdigris irises glazed with pain and confusion before the eyes flutter closed and the man loses consciousness, is: _This is the most beautiful man I've ever seen_.

His third, as he helps the man's friends who are now struggling under the dead weight of his body, is _What the fuck was that, Watson? This is neither the time nor the place_. He tries to shut down the other appreciative thoughts – the ones about full lips, enviable height and a slim yet muscled physique –by asking the friends what his name is.

It works, jarring him right out of his reverie, because they can't tell him the man's name.

They can't tell him much at all because they aren't the man's friends; in truth they've never met him before in their lives. What they can tell him is that they saw the man collapse and, knowing a call to 999 would be futile given the explosion, they thought it best to just bring him here themselves once they'd established he was mostly awake and just about able to walk with their assistance. They add that he hasn't said anything coherent, apart from a few protestations that he was fine just after he'd keeled over, despite their best efforts to keep him talking and get some relevant information.

It's clear to John, from their manner and their words, that they think the man was injured in the blast and had simply wandered away from the scene, confused and disoriented, until they came across him.

'Since he's in no shape to, I'll say thank you for him,' John says as a flustered orderly shoves a trolley in his direction before rushing off again. John opens his mouth to call him back but the Good Samaritans are happy enough to help him get mystery man onto the trolley so he doesn't bother.

Instead, after saying one last thank you to the two lads he grips the end of the trolley and manoeuvres it into the corridor behind the nurse's station as fast as cane and leg will allow. None of the cubicles are free but he can't leave someone unconscious in a waiting room stuffed full of the walking wounded, so this will have to do; at least here no one's going to trip over the poor sod.

Looking round, intending to get one of the nurses to take over the care, he realises that there really isn't anyone else free. _Down to you then, Watson_, he thinks as he locks the trolley wheels and turns his full attention to his patient.

The man's chest is rising and falling rhythmically under his ripped and dirty shirt, the buttons of which strain at each inhalation. John presses his fingers to the pale column of the man's throat, tracking the strong and steady heartbeat. He's treated enough blast victims to be certain that, whoever he is, he isn't in any immediate danger. However he does need to check for any other injuries or bruises that might indicate internal trauma. Plus the gash on his forehead is going to need cleaning and stitching.

First things first though, he clicks the pen torch on and checks the man's eyes, relief washing through him as the pupils dilate properly. Then, ever so gently, he works his fingers over the cheekbones and jaw, checking for fractures, before sliding them round the back of the man's head - through surprisingly soft hair – and huffs a relieved sigh when his careful probing reveals no other head injuries at all.

_He's more than beautiful_, a small corner of his mind supplies and John's gaze turns from medical to personal in an instant. He is. He's stunning. Even with the blood matting his floppy copper hair and one side of his face starting to swell. There's an almost ethereal quality about him that taps into the heart of John's psyche and sparks an urge to shelter and protect.

_You're being ridiculous_, he thinks, giving himself a mental shake, _you're a thirty seven year old ex-soldier, definitely too old and world weary to start waxing lyrical about someone you don't know from Adam like a love-struck teenager_. _Get your head on straight and do your job._

Taking a calming breath he reaches for the buttons of the man's shirt. This is a patient - nothing more and nothing less - and John will not let exhaustion, or whatever reaction he's having to the memories these sort of injuries stir, exacerbate unfounded feelings.

His hands do no more than disturb the lay of the shirt collar before they've exposed the edge of a dark purple mark mottling the pale skin of the man's chest; the unaccustomed feelings being pushed right out of John's head at the sight. The buttons get short shrift, almost being torn open in his haste to see how much damage the grimy material is concealing.

The curse that escapes his lips once the man's chest and stomach are exposed is one that used to make half his platoon blush. The ivory torso is marred by fresh, forming bruises. Bruises that most certainly have not come from the blast; not unless there are bits of fist and shoe shaped masonry out there somewhere. Whoever this man is, he's been in a fight with someone who knew where to hit to have the maximum impact from the minimum effort.

For a second the part of his mind that is still combat ready admires the text book efficiency of the blows before the rest of his thoughts rebel, reminding him exactly how much they must have hurt the glorious example of anatomy under his hands. Swiftly he works his fingers over the chest and stomach, palpitating the flesh as gently as he is able, checking for internal injuries and swellings. He finds nothing obvious that would indicate any severe internal damage.

He ought to check the man's legs and arms for wounds too, but that would mean cutting the man's clothes off, which he wouldn't do in a corridor even if he did have scissors on him. Instead John decides to deal with the wound on the man's head, which is still oozing slightly.

A quick trip to the supply room for a suture kit - which isn't as quick as John would like, his leg has been paining him badly since he arrived and saw the first victims – and he's back at the trolley, looking down at the mystery man once more; who hasn't move a muscle and is giving no indication he's about to regain consciousness any time soon. Which will make the stitching easier, at least, providing he doesn't wake up in the middle of it.

Setting the supplies on the edge of the trolley next to the man's head, John concentrates on cleaning and suturing the gash while he ponders the enigma laid out before him.

Was he injured in the explosion at all? Or was he the victim of a violent mugging? The two Good Samaritans that brought him in had seemed certain he was simply a blast victim and the debris in the wound certainly bares that hypothesis out … And yet he could have been wounded in the blast and then mugged. The Good Samaritans could have been the ones who did it. After all, he only has their word for what happened. Bringing their victim in to A&E would certainly be a good way to allay any suspicion that they were involved.

Knotting the final suture John turns his attention to the man's pockets. He doesn't even need to fish inside them to know he won't find anything to help with identification. The jeans are skin tight and the material is not distorted at all; he really doesn't seem to have anything but the clothes on his back. John wonders, briefly, if he dare try to turn him to check his back pockets – although he's certain he didn't feel anything in them when he was getting him onto the trolley – when his attention is caught by the man's hands.

They are large but elegant, although the tips of the fingers are marred by calluses and chemical stains. But that isn't what has caught his interest. No, it's the scrapes and swellings on the knuckles of both hands and the angle of the little finger on the right one. Definitely broken.

So the man fought back, defending himself vigorously enough to break a finger. Meaning he must have been assaulted before he sustained the head injury. _Poor sod_, John thinks again as he realigns the finger by feel, then binds it to the next one to keep it straight and in place. He doesn't let go when he's finished though, rubbing his thumb over the raw, red skin as his imagination offers him a vision of those long, slender fingers reaching out for him, pulling him close and …

John lets go of the hand as if it's burning, taking a step back and lowering his head as he fights to get his breathing under control. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ He yells at himself in the privacy of his head. _I've never overstepped all my boundaries like this. I've never met anyone who's affected me this strongly. I should just walk away now and forget this ever happened. I should ignore this weird sense of connection and_ …

His skin prickles and he looks up involuntarily, only to have his breath stolen away. The man's eyes are open, staring straight at him with the most penetrating look John's ever seen. For what seems like eternity they stare at each other, frozen, but then the man's chest heaves and his eyes go wide with … is that fear?

John instinctively moves to him, hands outstretched in supplication and says, as soothingly as he knows how, 'It's okay. I'm a Doctor and you're safe. You had an accident and you're in hospital. In A&E, in fact. But you're going to be fine. I promise.'

The man blinks, once, twice and then, in a low, rich, voice that sends a shiver straight down John's spine, asks, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'

* * *

**Author's notes:**

Casevac is the term most British soldiers use for the casualty evacuation (getting the injured out of the initial contact zone and back to the field hospital) in Afghanistan. You might also hear it called Medevac, which is the normal term for such procedures outside a war zone.

There are several women soldiers working in bomb squads on the front line, with and without sniffer dogs. That said, Corporal Jones and Monty are entirely figments of my imagination. Unfortunately their fates are not.

If anyone is wondering what's going on with John's back story, given him saying he was in the infantry one minute and then mentioning volunteering in a field hospital the next … all will become clear further through the fic, I promise.

Also, if you're wondering about the different bits of London mentioned, and where they are in relation to each other, I've marked the locations up on a map - the link is in my profile.**  
**


End file.
